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Beyond them stretched a magnificent property: landscaped gardens, fountains, a long gravel drive, a lake reflecting the sunset, and at the top of the hill, a grand manor that made the Delacroix house look merely fashionable.
Marie turned to Jean in shock.
He kept driving.
When they stopped in front of the entrance, a line of staff was already waiting. A dignified older woman descended the steps first, tears in her eyes.
“Jean,” she said warmly.
He stepped out, kissed her cheek, and then came around to open Marie’s door.
Marie did not move.
She looked from the staff to the house to Jean, whose simple suit suddenly seemed less modest than deliberate.
“What is this?” she whispered.
Jean held out his hand. “My home.”
Marie stepped out slowly, her mind racing.
“No,” she said. “No… Jean, what is happening?”
He looked at her with the same steady eyes she had first noticed in the restaurant.
“The truth,” he said.
She stared at him.
“I’m not poor, Marie.”
The words seemed impossible.
“What?”
He exhaled. “My family owns this estate. Several companies too. I left for the village because I was tired of women who only saw what I had. I wanted to know whether anyone could love me without the wealth, without the name, without the performance.”
Marie stepped back as if the ground had shifted under her.
“You lied to me.”
“So did you.”
The words were gentle, not accusing.
That was what made them land.
She searched his face, hurt and disbelief warring inside her. “All this time…”
“All this time,” he said, “I loved you as Marie. Not Marie Delacroix. Not an heiress. Just you.”
Marie lowered her eyes.
A strange, almost breathless laugh escaped her.
“This is insane.”
“A little.”
She looked up again. “You mean… we did the same thing?”
Jean smiled. “It seems we did.”
For a second she just stared at him.
Then, despite herself, she began to laugh.
The tension, the humiliation, the fear, the absurdity of it all—it broke over her like a wave. She laughed until tears came to her eyes.
Jean laughed too.